


Signed in Blood

by MistCover



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela is a demon, Demons, F/F, Implied Widowtracer, Implied abusive/predatory marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistCover/pseuds/MistCover
Summary: Amelie Lacroix has a problem, and that problem is her husband. Fortunately, she's heard of a demon who can solve the situation for her... for a price. Unfortunately, that price seems to be in flux, and ever steeper.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely pre-written so there will be no WIP hell. Updates W/Sat.

It is almost midnight, and Amelie Lacroix is on a _mission_. Her mansion is silent and chill in the fall air, the large winding passageways and cavernous stone rooms all but sighing around her. She glides through them on bare feet, hugging the walls, slipping from shadow to shadow. The pockets of her silk robe hold everything she needs for the night, but bare as her supplies are, she doesn’t want to risk running into anyone else who may be lurking in the house at this hour. It’s not that she’s afraid that her maid or her husband will find her- both are well used to her midnight wanderings by now. No, she simply can’t afford the distraction of small talk. Not tonight. Not when her goal is _so near_. 

Amelie pushes open the door to the basement, sneaking through the barest of cracks. The basement is even cooler than the rest of the house, which in the summer can be quite a boon. Tonight, it is an annoyance, albeit a minor one. She doesn’t bother with a light. It would be superfluous, and conspicuous from under the crack of the door. Instead, she feels along the floor with one foot until her toe finds a smooth patch among the rough stone floor. She drops to all fours, creeping along the floor, feeling out the pattern of the pentagram she’d spent the last three months working on. Almost every night she’d sneak out of bed as Gerard slept, painting another layer of gold onto the basement floor, working until near dawn when she’d crawl back into bed, giving herself enough time to greet her husband when he woke. Now, she knows it backwards and forwards, as well as she’d know the curvature of her own body, the quirks and bumps inherent to being a creature on Earth. 

With deliberate, slow motions, she finds the corners of the pentagram, then makes her way inwards, toward the center. The pentagon inside is just large enough for her to kneel in. She tests the boundaries, feels for the sharp edges of the shape. It has to be perfect. She knows it is perfect. She exits the sigil proper, standing, correcting her posture. She reaches into her pocket. A dead, golden parakeet and a switchblade emerge. Amelie rests the corpse down, inside of the circle, keeping her toes a hair’s breadth away from the edge. She flicks open the knife and starts a chant in a tongue that feels fluid and natural on her lips, even as it sounds alien to her ears. Without breaking her cadence or pace, she draws the blade across her forearm, opening up a sizeable wound, letting the blood spatter onto the feathers of the lifeless bird and the pentagram. In the absolute dark, it’s almost impossible to see how much has been spilled, or where it precisely hit, which is entirely unacceptable to Amelie, but she is not hurting for other options at the moment. This is the pivotal moment, the climax, and she can’t afford to allow her perfectionism to break her stride. She finishes the ritual chant, plants herself firmly on the floor, and waits. 

Power begins to stir in the air around her. It is subtle, at first. A slight tingle as she inhales, a miniscule increase in the ambient temperature. Amelie does not look away from the center of the pentagram. Her gaze is steady as the air begins to crackle, the fabric of reality groaning under the pressure as something unfathomably large presses on it from the other side, stretching the boundaries between worlds like a swimmer pushing through the water towards air. The pressure rises, the temperature soars, and just as Amelie feels the air being sucked from her lungs it releases in a rush. A singular spark of glittering light appears in the sigil and quickly expands, multiplying and growing until it is a blinding light, almost too perfect to look at. The paint on the floor glows pure and golden, radiating outward to light the basement as surely as any fire. The blood- now startling and scarlet- vanishes from where it lay on the floor. Amelie’s wound closes itself, the skin knitting back together with little more than a thin, pink line left in it’s wake, like a cat scratch. The bird explodes into a cloud of feathers, sparks appear and vanish in the air, and suddenly Amelie is not alone.

The light show dims to a manageable level, leaving the basement subtly lit. In the center of the trap, a distinctly female form stands. She is tall and shapely, wearing a skintight suit of a fabric that is obviously not of this planet. Her hair is the color of sunlight and bound tightly on her skull, from which twin horns curl outwards. Her skin is pale and thrumming with life, radiating from her whenever the flesh is exposed. She regards Amelie with serious eyes. 

“I am here.” Her voice is pleasant, ringing with power, and thoroughly unimpressed.

“I have a deal to strike with you. You raise the dead.” Amelie takes in the demon’s appearance. She doesn’t look particularly demonic. The only inhuman part of her, other than the horns, are the wings that arch gracefully from her back.

“Usually.” She looks her up and down. “You don’t have any death clinging to you,” she says, as though she were trying to conjure up a reason for being here at all.

“ _Non_. I am looking to create death,” she replies. There’s no use in telling anything but the truth. 

“And you chose me? You do know what my moniker is, yes?” The demon blinks at her. Her ‘w’s morph ever so gently into ‘v’s, a hallmark trace of an accent that is too long gone to really pin down. German? Russian? Somewhere between those two.

“You are known to some as Mercy. The demon that is somehow everyone’s angel. I doubt that is all you are capable of.” Amelie allows herself to begin to move, pacing the circle. ‘Mercy’ follows her, spinning in the tight quarters of her confinement, her constant observation adding to Amelie’s psychic pressure.

“Of course not,” she says, tone flippant. Her image flickers in place, as though she were trying to get comfortable in a new chair. Amelie suspects she’s trying to adjust to a new reality entirely.

“Then help me. I want to deal with you.” Which is probably how she should have started. How long will the pentagram hold this creature? Can it even hold her at all, or is Mercy biding her time, waiting for the right moment to strike? She doesn’t want to contemplate the consequences of that, instead focusing on her walk. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and show no fear.

“Who is it that you want dead?” Mercy laces her hands, resting her chin on them.The stiff gesture makes her look posed, in sharp contrast to her expression of nonchalance, as though she were doing an ad instead of a deal. 

“My husband.” She expected that to bring the room to a standstill, but Mercy doesn’t break her conversational stride.

“Ah. I suppose I can cut you a discount price, then.” Her tone snaps from distant to genuine. If she’s surprised by the idea of killing a husband, it doesn’t show. More likely, she’s known dozens, if not hundreds, of women who wanted their husbands dead. It’s a running theme of history, after all. 

“Oh?” She raises one eyebrow.

“I will assist you, as long as you are the one who actually kills,” she says, and then purses her lips momentarily, once again exaggerated, her entire being the perfect representation of her ‘product’. “And I’m afraid that will be my final offer.”

“And how is that supposed to help me?” Amelie looks at her, incredulous.

“I can make you better than you are. I can empower your blows, make you more deadly. I can whisper tips in your ear. Because that is what you need, yes? Just a little help,” she finishes, with a wink. It is hypnotic, enchanting, a promise of things that could be. Her wink alone could intoxicate just as well as a fine wine. 

“I accept your terms.” Amelie stops her pacing, turning to fully face the demon once more. 

“Wonderful!” Mercy claps. The motion is forced and mechanical, while her voice becomes artificially bright and cheerful. “Then let us begin.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank yous for all the kudos and comments and bookmarks! You make me feel all fuzzy inside and I really do appreciate it!!! :3

The sun shines through the thin curtains in Amelie’s bedroom, giving the lavender walls a sheen to them. She feels for her husband beside her, and her hand brushes up against his warm, sleeping form. He stirs, and she changes tactics, turning her questing into soft circles on his back in a hurry.

Gerard Lacroix rolls over, giving Amelie a sleepy smile. His features are angular, accented rather than softened by a thin moustache and tousled dark hair. He regards his wife fondly, letting out a relaxed sigh. 

“How do you stand it?” Mercy appears behind Gerard, balancing her arms on his side. She lays her head down near his waist, frowning, her eyes staying on Amelie. Amelie does a double take and quickly disguises it as a shiver, pulling her thick duvet closer to her body.

“Good morning, love. I thought you never got cold.” Gerard teases lightly. 

“Maybe I’m not feeling well,” Amelie replies. She locks eyes with Mercy, furrowing her brows, willing her to explain what she’s doing. 

“You were the one who agreed to have me help you,” Mercy says, luxuriating on Gerard, obviously and deliberately not paying him any attention at all. For his part, Gerard frowns, putting a hand to Amelie’s forehead. Mercy waves her hand in unthinking reply, and all at once Amelie is genuinely shivering with fever.

“Oh, you do feel hot. You poor thing. No, don’t get up. I’ll get you something to drink.” Gerard hoists himself up, dislodging Mercy as he goes. She lays down, sprawling out over his side of the bed, as though savouring her triumph over him. He stands and walks out, shrugging on a robe as he goes. Amelie can hear him humming a jaunty tune as he walks away, leaving her ‘alone’. 

“What was that?” Amelie asks, incredulous. She can feel the fever spreading through her body, consuming her until she’s sure she’s going to pass out. It’s disconcerting, disoriented, and wholly unwelcome.

“A convincing display,” Mercy says, brushing off her annoyance. “I hardly expected him to buy your excuse. Oh, I suppose I’ll have to leave you like this now, won’t I? At least until he comes back,” she says, with absolutely no regard for how miserable she’s made Amelie. Or maybe she does know, and she likes it. 

“You’re not being very helpful.” She glares at her.

“How do you intend to kill him?” Mercy asks, tone full of innocence. Amelie rolls onto her back, pulling her duvet up to her chin, trying in vain to ward off the chills that crawl up and down her spine.

“By hiring a demon to do it for me.” Amelie snaps. 

“Then may I recommend suffocation? These pillows certainly seem good enough,” Mercy muses, picking up one of the plush throw pillows that dot the bed to emphasize her point. Or, rather, it looks like she does. The pillow itself stays put; its twin vanishes into a puff of glitter as Mercy discards it, the illusion of no more use to her. 

“That will look like a murder.” She says, as though explaining to a small child.

“You could burn the house down, strangle him with your own hands, slip opiate into his dinner wine…” Mercy lists off possibilities, none of which are particularly novel to Amelie. She’s had at least one vivid fantasy about each of them. 

“All of which will result in me being caught, and tried for murder,” she says. Mercy keeps her eyes on her, all wide and full of feigned kindness.

“I could make sure you’re not caught.” Mercy smiles, the edges going wolfish. 

“What would you--” The door opens, interrupting Amelie. 

“I brought you ice water,” Gerard says, holding a large sweating glass. He crosses the carpet, placing the water on the nightstand. “Drink, dear, and get some more rest.” He leans over to kiss Amelie. She turns her head.

“Not when I’m ill,” she says, as though that was even half the reason she doesn’t want to touch her husband. Gerard nods, sighing, expecting this outcome. He plods over to the armoire, pulling out perfectly tailored clothes. Silence yawns between the three of them, with Gerard blissfully unaware of Mercy rolling back and forth on his decadent sheets, rubbing her feet on the smooth hand carved pillars supporting the canopy.

“I’ll call you when I get to work,” he says, taking a comb and running it through his hair. 

“Alright,” she says, barely acknowledging him. She could pass it off as being sick, but then again, why bother?

“Feel better,” he says, leaving again.

“Thank you,” she says to the spot where her husband once was. “Your price, then, for keeping me from being caught?” Amelie asks, forcing herself to stay calm, not to give in to the hundred petty annoyances that have been crowding her since she woke up minutes ago.

“One little favor. I have a pair of men I need diverted. Distract them, but don’t let them find you,” Mercy says, wagging a finger, as though she is repramainding a small child. “It would be messy if they found you.”

“How long would I have to keep them occupied?” Amelie asks.

“Oh, not long. A few minutes, at most,” Mercy says. She puts her hand on Amelie’s forehead. The fever snaps, draining out of her body. Both women shiver, Amelie in relief from the discomfort and Mercy… well, Mercy shivers in a full bodied way, her eyes closing rapturously, her fingertips dancing along Amelie’s skin. 

“Very well,” Amelie says. She throws her blankets off, stands, and knocks the water off the nightstand, watching it soak into the carpet, the stain spreading. The motion is deliberate, forcing something in this room under the control that Mercy seems to have taken wholly from her.


	3. Chapter 3

_Distract them, but don’t let them find you._ Mercy’s words echo in Amelie’s head. She shrugs her coat up over her shoulders, pushing her way through the busy grocery shopping crowd. She’s got a terrible coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, with sensible clothes that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary. It’s a beautiful day, just cold enough to bite into her skin and with enough sun to give everyone false hope that it is warmer, drawing them out onto the market. 

_Who am I supposed to be distracting?_ Amelie thinks, thinking loud. She sips her coffee, trying to look casual. Mercy appears, perched, statuesque, on an awning. The canvas doesn’t even dip to acknowledge her supposed weight. Her entire posture is tense, coiled, ready to strike. Even her wings glow brighter, flaring in the sunlight into something entirely not of this world. 

“The two men dead ahead,” Mercy says, whipping up her arm to point. A pair of men chatter by the carrots, glancing around the crowd. Neither are even making an effort to pretend to browse, exchanging surveying the crowd for staring at their phones with sudden intense interest. Amelie looks back up, and Mercy is gone. 

_And how?_

“That’s for you to figure out,” Mercy replies. She sounds as relaxed and confident as ever, despite her posture having been as stressed as Amelie has ever even imagined someone looking.

She closes the distance between herself and the men, keeping her eyes on her phone. She runs her thumb under the rim of her coffee cup, popping it off just enough to be loose, thinking furiously. It has to look like an accident. It has to be deliberate. The men don’t acknowledge her approach until she stumbles over her own feet, dumping hot coffee on the phone of one of the men. 

“Hey!” He shouts.

“Shit!” Amelie says, taking off at a dead sprint. Mercy’s instructions echo in her ears: _don’t let them find you._ The crowd shifts for her as she pushes through them, taking turns at absolute random in a blind panic. She can hear the slam of feet on cobblestone behind her and redoubles her efforts, popping out on the other side of the crowd and diving into the nearest alleyway. The brick buildings on either side of her extend thirty feet or so into the air, with seemingly flat roofs. Amelie braces herself, then leaps onto the nearest wall, swinging her weight from brick to brick, making her way up the wall one painstakingly slow jump at a time. She risks a glance over her shoulder and finds the men, facing the wrong way, running in the exact opposite direction of her. A lucky break, that much she’s sure of, as Mercy is nowhere to be seen. She grabs the roof with both hands, hauling herself up on the flat surface, panting. The exertion is as much as she’s done since her days in the ballet, making her muscles groan with familiar pain. Laying on her belly, she can see a wide view of the market. A handful of shoppers are spinning around, looking for something, but everyone else is doing their shopping, entirely oblivious. It’s a busy, happy day.

There is a sudden deafening roar and a palpable shift in air pressure. Produce and canvas goes flying, wood splinters, and the air is sucked out of Amelie’s lungs. A bomb? It must be. She reflexively shields her head with her arms, pressing her face to the rough concrete roof. People begin to scream. Some are shouting for help, some are shrieking like banshees, some have already broken down into loud, wailing sobs. Amelie lifts her head, peeking out to survey the scene. 

Mercy is gliding through the crowd, literally. Her feet don’t touch the ground as she weaves through the bodies- and they are bodies, Amelie realizes, and not all of them are intact. She flits from victim to victim, her feet brushing against their forms as she goes. Her wings flare out, beautiful and gold, and there is a blinding flash of light. Then another. Then a third. 

One of the corpses pushes himself to his feet, looking around. He stumbles, steadies himself, and starts to call out for help. Another man rises and immediately doubles over and vomits. The first man turns around and makes his way to the second, steadying him with an arm around his shoulders as they try to walk out of the carnage, as though they were old friends instead of miraculous survivors. An older woman stands up, brushes herself off, and walks away with a brisk stride, seemingly unbothered by her apparent death and resurrection.

Mercy stops her advance, kneeling down on the ground. She caresses something tenderly, running her hand over an indistinct body part. The air shines with the same blinding light for the fourth time. She picks up a small girl, holding her close to her body, little chubby legs wrapped around her waist. The little girl begins to wail, an ear piercing sound, one that would surely catch everyone’s attention if she wasn’t competing with dozens of other voices. Mercy supports her head and takes off, shooting across ground zero, and deposits the child on the other side. The girl continues to scream at the top of her lungs, running towards the arriving police. 

“I can’t stand all this noise,” Mercy says, right next to Amelie’s ear. She starts, shoving herself to her knees to find her stretched out, laguid, on the rooftop. Her near-white hair is slicked with sweat to her forehead, her cheeks offering contrast with a bright red. The obvious exertion is disorienting compared to her nonchalant position, and Mercy seems determined not to bring it up.

“You help those without deals?” Amelie asks, unable to keep the sneer out of her voice. “You choose who lives and who dies?”

“Ach, don’t spoil the fun. Those three adults had deals with me, in one form or another.” She smiles, showing her perfectly aligned, gleaming white teeth.

“And the little girl?” She asks. Mercy shrugs. 

“I’ll take us to your home,” she says, avoiding the question entirely. “Your husband will no doubt be worried, once the news gets there,” she says, thoughtful. Amelie sighs, nods, and offers her hand to the demon.


	4. Chapter 4

The demon hovering over Amelie’s shoulder becomes inconsequential after the first week or so. Everyone except her is oblivious to the embodiment of magic that drifts alongside her. Sure, she shorts out an omnic here or there, and when she floats over a plant it bursts into sudden, vivid life. Sure, the odd person has lingered a bit too long on the space over Amelie’s right shoulder, concentration painted across their features before they remember to hand her her change or step into the elevator. Mercy rarely speaks, and when she does, it’s with purpose. She’ll pipe up to suggest a better path home, one that conveniently passes by a gorgeous park. She’ll make suggestions about wine pairings with meals, and dole out complicated diagnoses to random strangers who can’t hear about their ill fate. All in all, however, it’s not a significant change in routine.

Amelie is finishing her bath on a cold night when Mercy perks up from her perch on the obscenely wide marble sink. She always looks a little like a restless bird, with her large glowing wings and wide, alert eyes. 

“You could shoot him,” Mercy says, running her hand under the bath water. “Stab him. Strangle him. Poison his dinner, if you cook his dinner.” None of this is new, but Mercy seems to be a puddle, rather than a pond, on _how_ to commit a murder. She could wax poetic on the complexities of life and death for hours, but when it comes to the actual dying, she is surprisingly spartan.

“I do not,” Amelie replies, sinking down under the water. Sound becomes muffled and her heartbeat pounds in her ears, so very alive. 

“Well, that will make it difficult to poison his dinner, then,” Mercy says, her voice as clear as it was without Amelie’s ears clogged with water, the ‘w’s leaning more heavily into ‘v’s than they had been. Her tone is overall more relaxed, that accent thickening into something nearly recognizable. Amelie surfaces for air.

“I do not delight in killing,” she says. “You seem to have a fascination with it.”

“With how to end it, yes, but the best way to work on that skill is with a wealth of practice.” Mercy picks up Amelie’s wine, brings it to her lips. She tips her head back, swallows, and replaces the glass, all without the drink inside decreasing, or her eyes leaving Amelie. 

“Shooting sounds like the least amount of work,” Amelie sighs, resigned to the idea that she will actually have to do this herself. She takes her wine and drinks deeply, staring down Mercy, who continues to track her, never letting her gaze fall elsewhere or idle on anything else. There’s no particular emotion behind the eyes- no disapproval, no admiration- just a constant, unrelenting pressure.

“Then we work with that,” she replies. Her wings flicker, casting odd, dancing shadows on the pastel walls. “I have someone you could practice on.”

Amelie finishes her drink, balancing the now empty glass on the edge of the tub. With deliberate, exaggerated motions, she makes a show of unplugging the tub, climbing out, and getting a towel around herself. Mercy’s eyes continue to track her, showing no emotion, no approval or distaste at her flaunting. The steady glug of draining water fills the space, echoing around the room. She walks through Mercy, to her sink, and splashes cool water on her face. Mercy drifts across the room, reseating herself on the lip of the ornate bath, equally silent. 

“Why?” Amelie asks, breaking their moment of silence.

“Why what?” Mercy asks, tilting her head. Through the fog in the mirror, her reflection is blurred, pale and yellow. Silence once again reigns, yawning between the two of them. Amelie drops her towel, stepping out of the bathroom to her chasm of a closet. Her winter wardrobe is pushing away summer’s styles with a steady surety, the light fabrics of sunny days being replaced with layers upon layers, meant to warm cool skin and cut through the bite of chill. She peruses her selection of nightgowns, running her fingers over the soft fabrics. 

“Who is it, then?” Amelie asks, utterly resigned that this, too, will be an unavoidable part of getting Gerard dead.

“No one you know. A machine in need of a miracle worker.” Mercy gives a short, dreamy sigh. “Of course, he wasn’t very precise with his wording…” She trails off, leaving the air between them once again empty.

“And you intend for him to be shot, because the way his request was spoken let you do such a thing?” Amelie asks, not out of curiosity. If she could just figure out why Mercy does what she does, this whole process would go so much smoother.

“Oh, yes, very good. You’re catching on!” She sounds actually delighted, appearing in front of Amelie, her form flickering in and out of the fabrics surrounding her. “He wants to escape from his duties. He did not give me better specifics, and what am I to do? Although, as he is an omnic, a man of logic and processors, I do think he knew what he was getting into.” She darts forward, pressing her lips to Amelie’s forehead. Amelie gasps, staggering backward and clutching her head in sudden, intense pain. Images flash before her: holding a weapon. Checking it over with precise motions, loading it, turning off the safety. Aiming for someone’s head, inhaling. Firing, the feel of recoil shoving her back as she loosens her muscles to resist the pull. Lived experience translates to burning knowledge, searing itself into her mind. 

“What did you do to me?” Amelie asks, shaking. She slides down to the floor, her legs too weak to hold her upright. Mercy glides over to her, kneeling in front of her naked form.

“I told you I could help you. I am helping you,” she says, giving Amelie a conspiratorial grin. “Now you know how to shoot.”

“And with this, I will… ‘practice’ on your target?” Amelie’s tone is as disdainful as she can manage, given the pain she’s in. Mercy nods, enthusiastically. 

After several more agonizing minutes of not acknowledging what Mercy has done, Amelie manages to get a lavender chemise on. She composes herself, squares her shoulders, and exits to her bedroom, where her husband lays sleeping. Soon, after all, she will be expected to put her new knowledge to work. She will have to be unmovable, to kill with her own hands. She will have to be able to brush aside these odd pains that Mercy sees fit to subject her to. She will have to be cold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is a day late- I was at a Dystopia Rising event, and thus had no Internet access whilst going out and killing zombies in the woods OTL  
> Please enjoy!

The night Amelie is to kill one of the most famous omnics in the world, a peacemaker named Mondatta, is bitterly, bitingly cold. It’s the kind of cold that sinks directly into her bones and wraps around her like a shroud. Amelie flits from shadow to shadow, her shoes clicking against the cold concrete of the rooftops. Take down the guards, take down the target, get out. Everything must go perfectly. Nothing can stand in her way, not tonight, not when her long journey is finally looking to come to a close. 

She does spare a moment to wonder why Mercy had her wear this catsuit. It’s impractical, freezing, and shows off her body in a way that would probably be distracting if she wasn’t meant to be hidden away. Mercy’s behavior makes less and less sense, even as they get to know each other more. She is by turns sympathetic, distant, clingy, impulsive, irrational, and absolutely impossible to deny. 

“Use your visor, Amelie,” Mercy says, her voice loud and clear in her head.

“I will,” she snarls to thin air. The sensation of seeing bodies in bright red makes her uneasy. It strips the humanity from the humans, keeps them from being real people. 

The first rooftop guard goes down with a disconcerting crack as his neck snaps. Amelie feels nauseous, fighting the urge to stare at the new corpse. The second is garroted, her hands keeping her length of grappling rope taunt even while her legs have begun to move, seemingly of their own accord, to whip her around and kick a third man in the head as the second drops to the ground. It’s a bit like the ballet she was so fond of before Gerard. As she works her way towards the next set of men, she finds herself counting tapping her free hand to her thigh in a steady tempo. The concrete is transformed to waxed wood, the dark of the night swapped for the near-blindness of stage lights. Keep counting, stay on task, stay smiling. Her eyes go distant and unfocused, even as she zeroes in on her target. A voice echoes in her head: _five-six-seven-eight._ Working off of borrowed muscle memory, she closes the distance between herself and her mark with a leap. Her mouth contorts into the grin she knows she must hold until the performance is finished, and she dances. She dances circles around the competition, watching them each succumb to her superiority, feeding off of the energy of the crowd. Watch her dance, watch her shine, her rising star impossible to contain. 

She hits her final position in a perfect, taut pose. Gerard’s face flashes into her mind, the way he was when they met, his eyes empty and hungry even as his mouth made sweet, luxuriant promises to the girl. Amelie can hear his voice, artificially affected in the way the wealthy speak, telling her about all the things she will soon be free to do, to explore, to see the world and dance on every stage she--

“What the absolute fuck is this?” A thick British voice drifts into Amelie’s reverie. She turns around, her motions sluggish, but the source of the voice is nowhere to be seen. “Is this all your doing? Who are you? What’s-- oh my God, no. No, no, no, no!” A face, so pale it almost glows in the moonlight, appears inches from Amelie’s nose. The girl is short, slim, and peppered with freckles. Her hair is a windswept pile of mouse-brown softness, and Amelie knows all too well just how nice it is to run her hands through that hair. Something chugs to life in her brain, sensory memory of the smell of this equally impractically dressed woman; the way her body gives under her hands, the way her voice jumps octaves when Amelie’s tongue slides over her nipples, her sunshine smile that could light up a city. Every ounce of her willpower goes pouring into clearing her thoughts, comprehending what is happening. 

“Lena?” Amelie shakes her head. “Lena, what are you doing here?”

“Stopping you, I guess! What the bleeding fuck is the meaning of all this, then?” Lena gestures with one small pistol to the bodies Amelie left behind. Her arms have odd gauntlets strapped to them, and her chest glows unnaturally blue, new details that click around in Amelie’s scrambled brain. Oh, and she’s holding dual pistols. That’s probably also important. 

“Lena, you’re dead,” Amelie says, frowning. She grits her teeth, clawing out of whatever mindscape she was trapped in. 

“No I’m not! And I would’ve- I wanted to-” She shakes her head, as though clearing it. “Why did you do this? Why did you kill all these people?” She looks genuinely distraught, her tiny frame practically trembling. 

“I had to,” Amelie says. “They were in my way.”

“What are you talking about?” Lena shouts. She paces in fast circles, spinning around Amelie.

“It is too complicated to explain. Unless you have time to tell me how you survived a plane crash that vaporized the ship itself,” Amelie says, composing herself, finally, the night clear and present.

“It’s a really long story, and-- oh, no you don’t! Tell me what is going on here!” She gesticulates wildly with her pistols. She’s not compensating for the shock at all, some distant part of Amelie notes. She’s given herself in entirely to her baser emotions, like she always did. Her tone is flitting wildly back and forth between the shellshock of the situation and something like the hollowed out corpse of their old, relaxed banter.

“Nothing, anymore. _Adieu, cherie._ ” Amelie whips out one wrist, extending her grappling hook as far as it’ll go until it catches on something- anything- solid. She lets herself be dragged away by it, away from Lena, away from the bodies, away from anything that could pull her back into the mental fog. Where she ends up is falling, having missed swinging onto some stranger’s balcony. In the streets below, her target is being quickly hustled into a car, surrounded on all sides by shouting men in suits.

Amelie lets her visor slide down over her eyes, outlining the world in reds and yellows. She brings her rifle to her shoulder, tucking it into the muscle, aims, and fires.

The night is split open with the crack of gunfire, the kick of the barrel feeling like a punch to her shoulder. The ground rushes closer, welcoming Amelie, promising an end to the madness.

She lands, and it is dark.


	6. Chapter 6

Amelie wakes up in an soft, unfamiliar bed that smells too clean to be actually clean at all. Mercy is crouched over her like a gargoyle, both hands framing her face. Her expression is determined, her mouth pulled into a grimace, her brows furrowed. For the first time, Amelie can feel her touch, and it is _awful_. Her hands are simultaneously too hot and too cold, rough and static, making their skin cling together in a sticky mess, like individual cells are fusing together and being torn apart between the two of them. Every movement of her palms, every microscopic adjustment of her fingers, is sandpaper and fire lancing across her skin. Amelie tries to slap her away, but her arms won’t respond to her commands. She is stuck, feeling wave after wave of unnatural burn slalom through her body, burning brightest at her head and on her spine. Golden light blankets them, masking her surroundings. She could be anywhere. 

“I still have use for you,” Mercy says, taking her hands away. Amelie feels her body fall into her control once more, spasming as delayed commands rush through her all at once. She tries to push Mercy off on instinct, but her hands slip through her, as usual. Instead, she sits up, taking stock of her situation.

She’s in a hotel room. Not a bad one, either. It’s the same as every other hotel room- bland, inoffensive colors, generic art, a television, a dresser, and the bed she is sitting on. It smells fresh and it’s large enough to suggest it wasn’t a cheap room, at least. Mercy appears by her side, pretending to lean her head against her shoulder, having moved from where she was previously straddling her. Anger floods Amelie, replacing the hurt of Mercy’s touch.

“What are you _doing?_ ” She demands, her voice sounding rough to her own ears. “You toy with me, make me give in to your demands while framing them as choices, make me feel like I’m back in the ballet while I do your dirty work! What am I to you? Useful? We had a deal, demon, and you are failing to deliver!” She is flushed by the end, her breath coming in sharp, short bursts. Mercy blinks and reappears in front of her, legs criss-cross.

“I am giving you what I told you I would. Making you stronger. Empowering your body. Taking your mind off of what you were doing, in order to ensure you would not hesitate, even for a moment.” Her expression is… pained, almost. Her blue eyes, usually so brilliant that they outshine gemstones, are flat and dull, complete with tired bags. Her hair is messier than Amelie has ever seen it, flyaways and imperfections in her ponytail looking entirely ordinary. Even her cheeks are blotchy instead of smooth and perfect, making her look human- if it weren’t for the horns and wings.

“Why?” Lena’s own frantic question comes tumbling out of Amelie’s mouth. “Why would you do this?”

“Because I do not want to watch things die! Don’t you see? Death is everywhere, unstoppable, painful, and final. I can fix it, true, but only for some and only some of the time!” Mercy’s voice rings with power, her glow blooming around her in gold and white. Her tone is strained, like she is on the verge of crying.

“You’re so casual about it, delighted, even. I don’t believe for a second the demon Mercy takes issue with death,” Amelie says. She has seen too much to think anything else. How could it be that a demon doesn’t enjoy death?

“The demon Mercy does not. The woman Angela does,” Mercy says, visibly deflating. Her wings fade with her horns, diminishing with her glow until she is just another woman, plain, beautiful but not supernaturally so, unremarkable in her demeanor. “Demon is such a strong word. The best technology in the world now borders on magic, and yet a supernatural creature must be given the appellation ‘demon’? It is all so much acting, isn’t it? Appearances.” Amelie blinks, trying to process what is in front of her eyes. Mercy- Angela- looks so very ordinary, and so very hurt, like she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

“You hate it, then. That’s why you won’t kill Gerard yourself,” Amelie says, still suspicious. 

“Correct,” Angela says.

“But you do allow people to die. You arrange for it, even,” Amelie says, her tone confused, disoriented. “You arranged for me to kill those on the rooftops. You arranged for me to kill Mondatta- a machine you had a deal with.”

“Correct again,” Angela acknowledges. “I can see in ways you can’t. What outcome will result in the least suffering, the least death, is clear to me. I work everyday to avoid needless violence, which can often mean violence is the tool necessary to avert something far worse. It’s complicated, morally ambiguous, and I do not think the guilt will ever leave me. I fix what I can. I fix who I can.”

“Like the girl at the market.”

“Yes, like her. It is taxing to do so for those I don’t have a standing agreement with,” Angela says. She runs her hand along the bedsheets, and for once they are pulled with her touch, moving back and forth as she absently strokes them. The pieces click in Amelie’s mind- the hovering, the constant redealing, the devil-may-care attitude.

“You’re lonely.” She says it with a sort of ringing finality, like a bell chiming its last chime. Angela only nods, averting her eyes. “You’re lonely, and you like me. You wanted to be nearer to me. The longer you extend our deal, the more you can insert yourself into situations you otherwise couldn’t- a second set of eyes and ears, feeding you even more information.”

“Everything you say is true,” Angela says.

“And you were once human,” Amelie concludes.

“Yes. I was a doctor, even. I was also too curious for my own good, and ended up much like you, in a deal. The cognitive leap from using nanotechnology to something more metaphysical wasn’t that far, in the end,” Angela says, looking completive. She shifts in her seat, like she knows where this train of logic is going, and isn’t sure how she feels about it.

“So you could make me one of you?” Amelie asks. The question hangs heavy in the air between them, a palpable weight in the space. 

“If you agreed, yes,” Angela replies. 

“And I would be able to see like you do. To know where there are girls who are going to be hurt by men like Gerard. And I could help,” Amelie’s speed increases as she speaks, her mind racing through possibilities. Never again would a star be snuffed out by the greedy hands of a man. Never again would a little French girl be swept up into a monster’s waiting maw, lined though it may be with money and luxury. 

“Sometimes,” Angela says. She looks apologetic, like she can see through the hope painted across Amelie’s features. “Not always, but sometimes.”

“How?” Amelie demands.

“Complete our deal. Kill Gerard. And then I will remake you,” Angela says, her wings regrowing, her horns curling delicately out of her hair. Before Amelie’s eyes she transforms again, the glow of her returning, her imperfections turning perfect, until she is floating off the bed, again a symbol of power beyond human imagining. 

“Then we must hurry. I have a husband to kill,” Amelie says, determination overflowing from her. She stands, scanning the room until she finds her gun, tucked away in a corner. With three large steps she gets to it, takes its weight in her arms. She slings it over one shoulder, a wolfish smile stretching her face. “Take me home, Mercy.”


	7. Chapter 7

One disorienting flash of light and rush of air later, the pair of them are in front of Amelie’s estate. Amelie marches up to her home with a purpose, rifle in hand, eyes blazing. Mercy floats behind, flitting from side to side, like a lightning bug. The dawn is just beginning to break, bathing the stone estate in yellow-red light and doing absolutely nothing to ease the cold of the air. The house itself is sealed tight, all curtains drawn, all lights off, giving the impression that no one is home. Amelie knows better, however. Gerard will be in bed, snug and warm, like he always is. 

“Perhaps it would be wise to use something smaller,” Mercy offers, ghosting her hands through Amelie’s arms. 

“Hm?” Amelie hums, too focused on her mission to reply properly. 

“This is a weapon meant for range, not up close attacks. And I get the feeling you’re going to do this personally,” Mercy says, her long fingers dancing up and down the barrel of the gun even as her body remains mostly behind Amelie. She is almost literally inside her, her front merging with Amelie’s back, a show of nerves that scream: I don’t want to be here. I want to crawl inside a hole and run away. Amelie nods sharply, holding out her rifle. 

Mercy steps through her, taking the rifle with both hands. Raw, unconstrained power surges forth from her, making her hands and forearms solid. The gun melts, warping and twisting as though it were under intense heat. Once it has become a puddle, it reforms itself, shrinking down into a handgun that fits neatly in Amelie’s palm. Mercy fusses with it a bit more, running the pads of her fingers along its body for a few moments before slinking back behind Amelie. 

Amelie nods. She pops the clip out, cocks the slide back, and checks the internals in a series of smooth, unthinking motions. Satisfied, she replaces the clip and lets the gun reset itself. Her face is warping, going from a look of grim determination to a manic grin, her body coiling tight in anticipation. Mercy, for her part, stays with her head barely out of Amelie’s shoulder, her wings wrapping around the two of them in a protective gesture. Together, they enter the massive home, Amelie’s footsteps echoing off the high ceilings. The house is still sleeping, the air thick and cloying, trying to lull whomever is inside into rest. Amelie fights back that urge, and fights the instinctive urge to check where her husband is and be as far from him as possible, and heads straight for the master bedroom. She breaks into a jog, rushing directly to the stairs, which she takes two at a time. Her shadow looks naked on the wall, thanks to the catsuit and the ornate lighting that springs to life as she passes by. The air around her is gathering energy as she runs, morphing from that sleepy almost-day to an electric crescendo. 

The two women end up outside the master bedroom, staring at the huge wooden door. On the other side there is faint snoring, muffled as it is by the thick walls. Mercy tights her wings, keeping Amelie securely contained within them.

“You could stay outside,” Amelie offers. She turns to face Mercy, wild eyed. Mercy looks her over- her posture, her face, the slight sweat gathering on her brow. This has been a long time coming for her, that much is certain. 

“No,” she says, simple and direct. “This is important to you.” 

Amelie nods, sharply, her hair flouncing behind her. Mercy darts her head forward, and for a split second Amelie can feel her lips on hers, an electric sensation just this side of painful. The kiss is another gesture- of what, Amelie is uncertain. 

Amelie opens the door, pushing it inwards with her upper body. It rushes across carpet, banging against the opposite wall as clear as any bell. The sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains, sending sharp slices of light across her absurdly large, ornate bed. On his side- and it has always been his side, hasn’t it?- Gerard lays sleeping. When the door slams, he starts awake, eyes snapping open, expression slack and blurred. He looks around, trying to decipher his rude awakening. Amelie stalks closer to him, framed by wings he cannot see, motivated by power he cannot fathom. She takes each step deliberately, keeping the gun at the small of her back, each motion sinuous. Excitement builds in her- not at the death, but at the freedom, and the chance to help others. This waste of a man’s life is the price to pay to become what she could never be before, what she so desperately needed- a protector. A slayer of evil men. 

“Darling? Darling, what--” 

In one smooth motion, Amelie brings the gun to Gerard’s temple and pulls the trigger. 

The crack of the bullet is deafening.

Crimson blooms on the wall. 

Gerard slumps over, his next word stopped in its tracks. 

Mercy rushes forward onto the bed, her wings flaring out until they are enormous, covering the space with their sheer size and light. Gerard’s body bursts into pure, white light, the blood vanishing off the wall and bed as though vaporized. Mercy glows brighter and brighter, the space around her feeling warped and tight, distorted-- and the corpse is gone. Amelie feels the pistol leave her grip, her hand bouncing up slightly with the unexpected lightening. 

While Amelie watches in awe, Mercy turns. Her eyes are solid gold and shining outward. Her wings are enormous, moving with a renewed vigor and grace, and each centimeter of her pale, smooth skin gleams with light. Looking at her is almost impossible. Amelie’s brain struggles to take in what it’s seeing as Mercy’s outfit melts away, displaying her in full. Her next breath turns into a gasp, and the light only brightens for her shock and surprise. Mercy is not a creature of this Earth, no, not anymore. Maybe she once was, long ago, but no more. Now she is power, personified. She is life, and death, and promises, and truths too dangerous for human ears. Her flesh turns solid, her wings folding in as they meet the walls, the bed sinking slightly with her weight. Amelie feels like she could cry from the vision of it all- the sheer, unmatched beauty of Mercy, the safety and assuredness of her light, the warmth that floods the room, ripping away any shreds of doubt Amelie ever had.

“Come to me,” Mercy says, her voice no louder, and yet booming. Amelie finds herself climbing up onto the bed, closer to the form of Mercy. Her clothes are gone, leaving her skin open to air. Even though it should be a shock, she feels just as warm and snug as she did stuffed into the suffocating suit.

Mercy leans forward, and presses her lips to Amelie’s in earnest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it comes to a close. This was a great ride everyone- thanks for taking it with me!
> 
> ****WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS EXPLICITLY NSFW****

To say Mercy’s kiss is powerful is to say the ocean is large; not technically untrue, but failing in every possible way to convey the sheer magnitude of what Amelie is experiencing. Her lips are fire, surprisingly soft, and trace from Amelie’s lips to her jaw with deliberate, delicate motions. Her hands grip at her back, fingers tracing Amelie’s shoulder blades, wandering across her skin as though they are lost. She digs her nails into Amelie’s delicate flesh, possessive of her. Amelie groans as Mercy’s lips find her neck, pushing herself closer to her, hungry for more even as the heat of her being begins to burn. 

Amelie’s hands move on their own, following the curve of Mercy’s spine up to where those wings, now encompassing them, connect to her back. The supple flesh of her shoulders gives way to the hardness of bone and the silky softness of feathers under Amelie’s touch. For a moment, she is pulled out of her ecstasy by sheer curiosity. She follows those feathers up to where they vanish into skin, and pulls lightly like when she tugged on Lena’s hair, back when.

Mercy’s reaction is instant and overwhelming. She gasps, rolling her shoulders, her wings moving to press themselves harder against Amelie’s hands. All pretense of demonic overpowering vanishes with a gasp and a sigh, Mercy’s hands going from possessive to scrambling, questing for something solid to hold onto. Amelie grins, savoring her brief upper hand, and curls her fingers deeper into the feathers, pulling back again. 

The pair of them topple over, Amelie straddling Mercy’s hips, moving to run her fingers up and down the length of Mercy’s wings while the demon beneath her writhes. She ducks down, kisses her hard and sloppy, her hair cascading down to hide their faces. 

“You thought you’d be in charge, hm?” Amelie teases, parting Mercy’s lips with her own, going deeper. Mercy attempts to reply, her words melting into a moan as Amelie moves herself down her body, bringing the tip of one breast to her mouth. Her hands move down Mercy’s sides, feeling the shift and twitch of a surprising amount of muscle as she kisses her way over to the other nipple. Mercy’s wings flutter, trailing down Amelie’s back as she continues to move lower, kissing her way from her breasts down to her hips, ghosting her tongue over the space between them. She can smell how aroused Mercy is, the sweet, acrid scent amplified by her makeshift covering of wings. Slowly, painfully, she works her way lower, until she’s got her arms braced on the sides of Mercy’s hips and her mouth centimeters from her. Mercy is shaking, twitching ever closer to Amelie.

Amelie pounces up, hooking her thighs around Mercy’s hips, and kisses her again. Before Mercy can even so much as whine, she has her hands back on her wings, tugging back her feathers, forcing Mercy to arch her spine. Her wings flare out, splaying to the sides, and when Mercy manages to force her eyes open she looks at Amelie with frustration. Her expression flickers between wide-eyed need and scowling disapproval.

“Do you want this, or no?” Mercy demands of Amelie. 

“I want to enjoy myself while I sign away whatever portion of my soul is left,” she replies. Amelie darts forward, kissing Mercy briefly, relaxing her grip on her wings. “Do you want this?”

In reply, Mercy grins and lunges, sending Amelie off balance, rolling them both over on her ostentatiously large bed. Without further prelude, she braces herself on one hand while the other slides two fingers into her, starting a steady rhythm of thrusts. Amelie gasps, clawing for her sheets, her witty comeback strangled in her throat. Mercy angles her palm to grind against Amelie’s clit, wringing even more pleasure out of her.

“You were ready,” Mercy comments idly, exploring the heat of Amelie’s inside. She’s soaking her, grinding her hips down onto her fingers, all thought of taking control of the situation fled from her mind as it is overwritten by the simple, primal urge to seek pleasure. “How long has it been for you? Certainly not so long that you couldn’t think to tease me,” Mercy says. 

“Long enough,” Amelie says. She spreads her legs a little further, giving Mercy a little more room to work. “Long enough.”

Mercy moves with experience, ramping up the speed and pressure of her thrusting fingers. She moves her head down to lick at Amelie’s breasts, managing never to break her stride, building Amelie up with steady assuredness. Amelie bites down hard on a moan. Her body, aching after years of no pleasant sensations, gives in readily; her mind resists, not wanting to give Mercy the satisfaction of knowing she’s claimed all of her, body and mind. She can feel her control unraveling, spiraling closer and closer to the inevitable edge. She glances up at Mercy’s face, and finds her smiling. She knows what she’s doing, and she is delighting in it. Mercy catches her glance, holds her gaze.

“Come,” she says. A simple command.  


Amelie goes taut, arcing up underneath Mercy, her thighs shaking. Her breath comes in ragged bursts while her body shudders, pressing down hard on Mercy’s palm, aching for a little more, begging for her orgasm to last a little longer. Mercy is entirely happy to oblige, changing and adjusting her motions from deep thrusts to shallow pressure while she grinds circles on her clit. Amelie’s body tries in vain to come down off of the high but Mercy is prepared, hooking her fingers just so and setting her off again. Time melts away into pure bliss, and Amelie finally surrenders herself to it.

By the time she comes around, Mercy has her knees on either side of her face and is lowering herself down. On instinct, Amelie slides her mouth over her, running her tongue up and between her folds to swirl around her clit. Her skin here is searing her, sending pain through her lips and tongue down her spine. She can feel Mercy tense as she applies the tiniest bit of pressure, using old, familiar patterns on this new and unexplored flesh. She tastes and smells like burning candy, hitting all the right notes to make her crave more with an undercurrent of acid wrongness. As Mercy twitches and writhes on her face, the pain shooting through Amelie mounts, her nerves, already raw and open, screaming at her to escape. She can’t move, can’t think, can only continue her ministrations on Mercy as the flame from her transfers to Amelie’s core, wrapping around her, destroying any past semblance of Amelie. 

Mercy comes with a high pitched moan and a full body shudder, bracing herself on the bed above Amelie, rolling her hips forward on her mouth. Amelie disengages, screaming, as the hedonism of the sex is slices through by the sharp pain in her gut. It spreads, burning brightest on her mouth and in her stomach, and Amelie curls defensively around herself, panting. She grits her teeth against it, willing herself to endure.

All at once, the pain vanishes, leaving Amelie behind. She sits up, shaking the last of it from her mind, and feels a familiar fabric shifting on her skin. Confused, she looks down- it’s her last costume, from Swan Lake, from the night Gerard found her. It’s as beautiful as she remembered it being, fitting her as perfectly as it did then, even as her body has gone softer from a lack of practice. She looks around, searching for her mirror, and finds her face made up as it was then, as well, except somehow more precise, more true to the vision of the performance. Even the colors of her costume are bolder, somehow, the green, white and black all more purely pigmented. 

“I was wondering what you’d end up looking like,” Mercy says. Amelie whirls around, finds her knelt at the foot of the bed, once again clothed. “The sex won’t hurt next time, I promise.” She smirks, her voice laced with promise. “You took that quite well.” She no longer glows, no longer radiates power around her to Amelie’s eyes. 

“It’s done, then,” Amelie says. She examines herself slowly, reaching her arms in front of her to look them over. 

“Yes. Not to sound melodramatic, but Amelie is no more. You need a better name, then, something that will convey your purpose with me. Hmm…” Mercy tails off, putting a finger to her lips, deep in thought. Amelie looks to her newly minter lover, the wounded bird who refuses to fall, the conditional savior, the martyr, Mercy. A thought forms in her mind, coalescing into pinpoint clarity.

“Widowmaker.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If you liked this, you can commission me at valkyrie-mode.tumblr.com!  
> Please leave a comment!!  
> Thank you for reading <3


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